


Nymphet

by hellabaloo



Category: Dangerous Liaisons (1988)
Genre: Coming of Age, Discussion of Canon Rape, Disillusionment, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Yuletide 2012
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 18:38:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellabaloo/pseuds/hellabaloo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Abbess informed Cecile Maman would be collecting her from the convent, she thought that made her an adult, a <i>woman</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nymphet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bgrrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bgrrl/gifts).



> I was immediately struck by your prompt and had a lot of fun writing this. Happy Yuletide!
> 
> Some slight divergence from the book canon ending. The quotations are all maxims by La Rochefoucauld.

_i._  
_“The violences we put upon ourselves to escape love_  
_are often more cruel than the cruelty of those we love.”_

Paris mourns the death of the Vicomte de Valmont after its fashion; the salons speak endlessly of the waste of entertainment and lack of scandal. There are very few in attendance at the funeral mass. In the weeks following the circulation of the letters written between the late vicomte and the Marquise de Merteuil, Cecile is barred from leaving her house or receiving any visitors. In an act of charity, Danceny redacted the name of the young lady and her future husband caught in the marquise’s webs of intrigue. Still, Madame de Volanges recognizes her daughter in the infamous letters and threatens to pack her back to the convent should anyone discover her involvement.

Cecile cannot abide to sit quietly as Maman gossips with her friends and indicts innocent girls as the mystery lady guilty of being the naïve target of a skillful seduction; she spends most of her time in her room. But that in itself is torture. All around her are old playthings and the trappings of her innocence that can now only be mocking. Cecile smashes the porcelain face of a doll, wishing it was the vicomte instead. If only she were a man, she might have defended her own honor. She doesn’t feel guilty at the thought, only angered that she can never now hurt Valmont in the same manner that he hurt her.

A cold, but otherwise unremarkable day in the new year, Maman calls Cecile to the drawing room. Cecile puts on a blank, demure face and enters the room. Her mother is in conversation with a gentleman, but quickly smiles too saccharinely to be genuine and beckons Cecile to come closer.

“Cecile, my child! I would like present you to Monsieur de Bastide,” Maman says.

Cecile understands in an instant what this means. She smiles politely and curtsies, flicking her eyes downward in what once would have been true shyness. They sit as they wait for tea, her mother engineering that Cecile and Bastide share the small settee. Cecile arranges her skirts, but cannot help to cover part of his lap. 

Cecile is grateful that the arrival of the tea allows her to playact the dutiful daughter and escape to serve it. As she’s handing Monsieur de Bastide a cup and saucer, a footman enters and speaks in hushed tones to Maman. Cecile can tell her shock is manufactured.

“I’m so very sorry, Monsieur de Bastide, but I must address this issue with our horses at once. With my husband traveling on business, you see. Cecile, please entertain our guest. I most sincerely apologize to be such a bad hostess,” Maman says and follows the footman from the room. 

Cecile nods and occupies her mother’s vacated seat. As she sips her tea, she hopes Bastide takes her lack of conversation as nervousness. God, how differently she would have acted had they met six months ago. Cecile controls the disgusted look that threatens to distort her face into an ugly grimace as she thinks of the Vicomte de Valmont. How much easier her life would have been had she remained innocent. And how much she loathes Valmont for taking that from her, but convincing her all the same _that_ is what she truly wanted.

Monsieur de Bastide clears his throat. “While I appreciate your mother’s attempts subtlety, I much prefer to be frank. I have treated with your father, and we are to be married in the spring.”

Cecile drops her eyes in a show of modesty. Whatever other lies the Marquise de Merteuil concocted, Cecile remains convinced of her sincerity when she said, _“When it comes to marriage, one man is as good as the next.”_

“Monsieur, I—”

“Please, mademoiselle. I am uncomfortable with displays of a female’s heightened emotions,” he says brusquely.

Cecile smiles again and says, “Then I will endeavor to show my emotions in a more modest fashion.”

If she could scream she would, but Cecile merely sips her tea instead.

_ii._  
_“Sincerity is an openness of heart; we find it in very few people;_  
_what we usually see is only an artful dissimulation to win the confidence of others.”_

The hospital’s cool stone, stark furnishings, and quiet sisters all serve to remind Cecile of the convent; it’s with more than a little fondness that she recalls her life there. But never was there such a solemn event, and Cecile is uneasy, unsure how to act in light of Madame de Tourvel’s worsening condition. She looks pale and sickly and Cecile wonders if she ought to pray for the woman. Maman is speaking with the sisters about the next course of treatment. The last person Cecile expects to see at Madame de Tourvel’s deathbed is the Chevalier Danceny.

It used to be that merely a letter from him would cause her to feel such strange flutterings all over. But now, after everything, Cecile cannot feel any change even standing not five feet away from him. 

The chevalier is speaking quietly to Madame de Tourvel. Cecile does not catch any of their conversation, but does see the measuring looks her mother is giving both to her and the chevalier in equal measure. Maman must still think there is some attachment between them. 

“Draw the curtains.” Madame de Tourvel’s voice does not waver, though it is weak.

Danceny looks at Cecile and nods to the doorway. She wishes he could be less obvious with her mother in the room. Luckily, Maman has taken her place at a kneeler and is fingering the beads of a rosary. Cecile affects a sniff, as if she is too overwhelmed by her emotions and makes for the doorway the chevalier indicated.

She barely makes is into the darkened hallway before Danceny exclaims, “Cecile!”

“Lower your voice, Danceny. My mother is in the next room,” Cecile says.

“Oh, Cecile. I tried to call on you when I knew you had returned from the country, but your mother refused me,” Danceny says, clasping at her hands. Cecile thinks only the naïve can be so sincere. It makes her heart ache to recognize that never again can she consider herself innocent. 

“I didn’t know. I’m surprised she did not do worse than to simply refuse you.”

“For that I am thankful. But I must speak with you now, of something greatly troubling.”

The chevalier’s expression is pained, as if he would rather do anything than to broach the subject.

“Whatever is the matter, Danceny?” Cecile asks. 

“I was informed recently of your seduction at the hands of the Victomte de Valmont. The defense of your honor demanded that I challenge him.”

“You challenged the victomte?” Cecile cannot believe her ears. 

“Yes, and while your honor is protected it is at the expense of his life.”

Cecile sways on her feet. The vicomte, dead? Danceny’s hands attempt to steady her.

“And that is not the end of the drama, for we are all but players responding to the directions of a single mastermind. We are all the creatures of the Marquise de Merteuil. But I was given her letters to the vicomte with his last breath and intend to expose her cruelties.”

This is all too much for Cecile. First the vicomte, whom she thought herself in love with for a time, and now the Marquise de Merteuil. She thought the woman a true and good friend.

And yet, that the marquise would ruin so many lives for her own amusement isn’t wholly shocking to Cecile. 

Finding her voice, Cecile asks, “Why did you visit Madame de Tourvel?”

Danceny regards her with sad eyes. “I was asked to by the vicomte. Her illness is the result of an unjust and untrue confession from him.” 

“What confession was that?” Cecile knows the answer will only cause her pain, but must hear the answer nonetheless.

Sighing, Danceny says, quietly, “That he did not love her.”

Cecile must be away from the chevalier before her tears fall. She attempts to twist from Danceny’s grasp, but is unable to.

“Cecile—”

“Unhand me, Chevalier, or I will call for my mother,” Cecile says, coldly. Danceny recoils as if he had been struck, and she turns on her heel.

She hears him call out “Cecile!” before she turns the corner, but she cannot stand the company of the man she betrayed when all she wants is the company of the man who has caused such her such misery.

_iii._  
_“In the human heart there is a perpetual generation of passions;_  
_so that the ruin of one is almost always the foundation of another.”_  


Cecile thinks of the Marquise’s advice as she approaches the Marquise de Merteuil and the Victome de Valmont. She may not be an equal in rank until her marriage, but she is finally an equal in this adult world of coy smiles and subtle movements of a lady’s fan. Presenting her hand for the Valmont to kiss, she smiles demurely. As she turns to join her mother to listen to the concert, Cecile knows the victome is watching her and feels a rush of womanly pride at the knowledge. No longer is she there just to observe and keep quiet as her mother said; Cecile is a woman quite capable of fulfilling her own desires. 

Retired to her room for the evening and awaiting Valmont’s arrival, she rereads the most recent letter from Danceny for the tenth time. He writes in much the same way he speaks: all effusive flattery and cloyingly sentimental. He praises her beauty and relates his agony at their forced separation. Cecile giggles when she gets to paragraph that recounts how the chevalier felt a gentle breeze across his face and wished it could be her fingers instead. She’s thankful he hasn’t attempted poetry yet. 

A quiet click of tumblers falling into place announces the arrival of Valmont. He pauses just inside the anteroom door and places the key back into the pocket of his dressing gown and the candelabra onto the nearest cabinet. The light from the candles cast half of Valmont’s face in shadow and Cecile cannot help the shiver that runs through her body. That he is handsome, no one could dispute. 

“Maidemoiselle,” he says.

“Victomte.” Her voice is quiet, but she’s grateful it doesn’t waver or sound too nervous to her own ears.

“I am pleased to find you in better spirits this evening.” His lips are not exactly a smile, but Cecile knows he finds something funny.

“I—” 

Whatever she wanted to say gets caught in her throat as Valmont saunters towards her. The marquise advised to continue this dalliance, but here in the moment Cecile is finding it more difficult to act.

“Shall we continue where we left off last week?” the victomte asks, taking her hand. Cecile still cannot find the words, but looks Valmont squarely in the eye and nods decisively. This is what she wants. 

He leads her to the edge of the bed, but surprises her by sitting in front of her. He spreads his legs and Cecile can only call the sight _obscene_. There’s an anticipatory flutter to her stomach and a heat pooling between her legs. 

“What do you want, Cecile?” Valmont asks, drawing her forward into the space between his legs. 

She must be honest, otherwise why is she pursuing this? “I want to know,” she says.

“Know what?”

“What to do. What I should feel. I want—I want to know how to be a lover.”

Valmont smiles and Cecile can feel the happiness bloom in her chest. Maybe she knows more than she thinks already.

“You never did give me a kiss,” Valmont says. Cecile flushes with embarrassment at the memory of that night. Why couldn’t she have been more receptive to his advances and why did she ever consider it shameful?

“Then I will give you a kiss this time,” she says and rests her hands upon Valmont’s shoulders. His hands are at her waist, the heat of them easily felt through the thin linen of her nightgown. Cecile bends down and slowly leans towards the vicomte. She thinks his eyes are very fine when she remembers she ought to close hers. One doesn't kiss staring straight ahead. The kiss is a gentle pressing of lips. Cecile leans in further trying to convey her newfound passion. Valmont grips her waist tightly. He opens his mouth and this time his tongue is not so unexpected. Cecile opens her own mouth and continues to kiss the victomte, hoping she’s not embarrassing herself further. 

She feels a sudden cold, and doesn’t realize why until she feel Valmont’s finger press between her legs. Cecile jolts back but cannot move too far with the victome holding her.

“Don’t stop, Cecile. You said you wanted to know how to be a lover, didn’t you?” Cecile can feels his fingers start to slowly move in circles and for a moment she feels a jolt of something amazing.

“Yes,” she says, her voice breathy.

“Then let me teach you,” Valmont replies.

Cecile nods and leans back in and kisses the victomte again, growing more confident and adding her own tongue. She wonders if passion and love could be the same thing, and if it were possible to love two men simultaneously.

_iv._  
_“It may well be that those who have trapped us by their tricks do not seem to us so foolish as we seem to ourselves_  
_when trapped by the tricks of others.”_

The Victomte flicks the letter into her lap. Seeing it closer Cecile recognizes Danceny’s hand, and her heart leaps into her throat and she tries not to smile as her mother passes, escorting Madame de Tourvel out onto the grounds. She hides the letter in her embroidery and gathers her shawl about her shoulders, but it’s pulled away suddenly, leaving her neck chilled.

“Come back for it,” he says disinterestedly and already throwing it back inside behind an ornamental plant. It sounds like a command, but it feels expected, as if he knows Cecile will do as he’s instructed. She shivers and it has little to do with the temperature.

She counts ten steps and makes an excuse for her mother’s benefit, although none of the older ladies are paying her any mind. Cecile turns and runs back into the chateau. 

“Mademoiselle,” the victome says. “I have no wish to arouse suspicion, so I’ll be brief. The letter is from the Chevalier Danceny.”

The smile that threatened before breaks across Cecile’s face. “Yes, I th—”

“Now, the handing over of such letters is a far from easy matter to accomplish. I cannot be expected to create a diversion every day. So—”

The vicomte pauses and pulls out a key, brandishing it.

“This key resembles to key to your bedroom, which I happen to know is kept in your mother’s room on the mantel piece, tied with a blue ribbon. Take it. Go up now, attach the blue ribbon to it, put it in the place of your bedroom key, which you will then bring to me. I’ll be able to have a copy cut within two hours, then I can collect your letters and deliver Danceny’s without any complications.”

Cecile, following the movements of the key, isn’t sure she will remember that litany of instruction. Valmont steps closer to her and Cecile shrinks back. She can recognize the impropriety of this scene and feels guilty for hoping Madame de Tourvel is still ill. As he settles her shawl about her shoulders, Cecile shivers at the touch of his fingertips. They brush against the back of her neck, dipping beneath the lace trim of her dress. 

“Now, in the cupboard by your bed you’ll find a small bottle of oil so you may oil the lock and the hinges on the anteroom door.”

The vicomte points in the direction of the main staircase, but Cecile finds herself unable to move.

“Are you sure, monsieur?” she asks.

“Trust me,” the vicomte says. And when he speaks with such authority, how can she not trust such a man? Cecile curtsies deeply, and she cannot tell what the look the Vicomte gives her ought to imply. 

“Believe me, mademoiselle, if there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s deceitfulness.”

As she races up the stairs to her mother’s room, in such a manner that would have been derided as completely unladylike by Sister Marylène, the sister responsible for comportment at the convent, Cecile can feel the anticipation welling inside her at the thought of continued letters from Danceny. Her mind also provides, unbidden, the image of the Victome de Valmont, his eyes dark and inscrutable. The memory of Danceny’s eyes, while fine in their own right, never makes her tremble.

_:::_

Cecile cannot bear to look in a mirror while her servant dresses her; she’s afraid of what she’ll find in her reflection. Even swathed in yards of yellow silk she feels exposed, and the appraising look her servant gives her feels knowing and accusatory. Cecile takes mincing steps down to the luncheon table, her muscles sore and her skin feeling too tight. Trying to empty her mind of his words that have been echoing in her mind in a constant refrain, she tries to recall nonsense nursery rhymes. It almost works until she hears Madame de Rosemond greet him. 

Wholly unremarkable, polite conversation is made, and Cecile feels the bile rise in the back of her throat at the thought. How can the world continue to be the same as it was? She attempts to eat, but each dainty bite tastes like ash in her mouth. Unthinking she glances up and the victomte is there, insufferably casual in his manner. He pouts at her baleful look and flicks his tongue at her. In that instant, Cecile can only feel the ghost of his fingers digging into the flesh of her thighs and how his tongue and lips left wet and cooling patches against her collarbones. His warm hands at her breasts and the pain of his fingernails as he pinched her nipple. Before she wretches onto her plate, Cecile runs from the room. Her eyes prickling with tears and the _shame_ of it all building a knot in her stomach. 

Her mother’s impatient knocking at her door and entreaties for Cecile to open it and talk to her serves only to make Cecile more determined to stay shut away from that man and his wandering hands and vicious tongue. Maman cannot help her because Maman cannot know what she did last night. But the Marquise de Merteuil! Surely she will be the voice of reason and instruct Cecile what is to be done about this unfortunate business. She dashes off a letter, more pleading and urgent than eloquent, but perhaps the harried tone will summon the marquise all the more quickly. 

The next few days are agony. Cecile keeps the door to her anteroom barred at all times and takes meals in her room. She steadfastly refused to speak with her mother, other than to say she isn’t feeling well and that the Marquise de Merteuil can be her only relief. Finally, she arrives and Cecile takes her to a small sunroom at the far end of the east wing of the chateau. 

“Tell me. You resisted him, did you?” the marquise asks. 

Cecile’s voice is thin and scratchy when she replies. “Of course I did. As much as I could.”

“But he forced you.”

It isn’t phrased as a question. 

“N-no. Not exactly. But I found it almost impossible to defend myself.”

“Why was that? Did he tie you up?” The marquise asks, incredulous. Cecile cannot understand these questions. 

“No. No. He just has a way of putting things. You can’t think of an answer”

“Not even no?”

“I kept on saying no all the time,” she says. And yet, she thinks back to that night. She could have called for her mother or a servant and taken her chances with them finding the victome in her bed with a copy of the key to her bedroom. She could have, but she didn’t. “But somehow that wasn’t what I was doing.”

Cecile leans forward, eyes imploring. “I’m so ashamed.”

The Marquise moves from the seat and removes her hat, inspecting her reflection in the mirror. “You’ll find the shame is like the pain. You only feel it once.”

As she moves to the settee, Cecile does not believe what the marquise is saying. How can everything she learned at the convent be wrong?

“You really want my advice?”

“Please,” Cecile responds, entreating.

“Allow Monsieur de Valmont to continue your—instruction. Convince your mother you’ve forgotten Danceny and raise no objection to the marriage.”

“But Monsieur de Bastide!”

“When it comes to marriage, one man is as good as the next. And even the least accommodating is less trouble than a mother.”

Cecile thinks of her living her life without her mother to dictate what clothes she wore and who she associated with. She is a living doll, going about life exactly as her mother wished. If marriage is the only escape from her current life, even if it is a marriage to an old man, perhaps the marquise has a point. But with marriage comes obligations, and the thought of sharing her bed with another man turns Cecile’s stomach.

“Are you saying, I’m going to have to do that with three different men?”

“I’m saying, you stupid little girl, that provided you take a few elementary precautions, you may do it or not with as many men as you like, as often as you like, in as many different ways as you like.”

Cecile searches the marquise’s face and finds an openness to which she is unaccustomed. She cannot deny the thought of finally understanding those long looks between men and women across rooms is tempting. And the marquise obviously believes there is merit to inducting Cecile into this rarefied world. 

“Our sex has few enough advantages. You may as well make the best of those you have,” the marquise says. 

Cecile smiles faintly. Yes, why not? The thought of Danceny’s lips following the curve of her bosom makes her stomach coil in what can only be described as a pleasant heat. And this is advice coming from the marquise; indeed it must be the best course of action in the situation. 

“Now, here comes your maman. So remember what I’ve said, and above all, no sniveling.”

Girls snivel, but Cecile is no longer a girl. She is a woman, and women do no snivel.

“How are you feeling now my dear?”

“Oh much better. Thank you, Maman,” she replies with a practiced smile. 

“I think you look tired. I think you should go to bed”

“No. I—”

“I think you should do as your mother suggests,” the marquise interrupts and gives Cecile a meaningful look. “We can arrange to have something brought to your room. I’m sure it will do you good.”

Cecile understands, now, what is meant. She, too, can speak in veiled meanings and euphamisms.

“Well, perhaps you’re right Madame.”

Cecile curtsies, and presses the marquise’s hand in gratitude. As she flounces back to her room, lighter than she has felt in a week, Cecile thanks her good fortune to have a friend like the Marquise de Merteuil.

_v._  
_“We do not usually reckon a woman's first flirtation_  
_until she has had a second.”_

She watches a man step out of his carriage from the window, the ripples in the glass obscuring his features but his form is as handsome as any Cecile as seen. Not that Maman has introduced her to many men since retrieving her from the convent.

“Well, my dear. So, how are you adapting to the outside world?” the Marquise de Merteuil asks, appearing to be genuinely interested. Cecile feels a rush of gratitude towards the woman.

“Very well, I think.”

Naturally, her mother interrupts their conversation. “I’ve advised her to watch and learn, and be quiet except when spoken to.”

At times like these Cecile almost wishes to be back in the convent. There, at least, she didn’t need to listen to her mother’s annoying voice. But the marquise’s smile slips ever so slightly, and Cecile thinks that elegant lady might find her mother equally as tedious.

“So, we must see what we can devise for your amusement.”

Cecile decides that the marquise must have been sent from God. The other acquaintances of her mother’s haven’t spoken ten words to her combined. But here is the Marquise de Merteuil acting as a friend might.

The visitor’s card is presented to the lady of the house, who nods and smiles at the footman,

“Valmont is here,” the marquise announces.

“You receive him, do you?”

“Yes. So do you.”

It seems clear to Cecile that any friend of the Marquise de Merteuil would be worth receiving.

“Monsieur le Victome de Valmont, my child. Whom you very probably don’t remember, except that he is conspicuously charming. He never opens his mouth without first calculating how much damage he can do,” her mother lectures.

“Then why do receive him, maman?” Cecile asks, curious. These unspoken undercurrents in company that she knows are there but cannot understand are so frustrating. They like the novels she hides under her old playthings are full of pregnant pauses and supposedly meaningful glances and Cecile wants so desperately to _know_ what they mean and use them herself.

“Uh, everyone receives him.”

Cecile thinks she ought to be embarrassed by her mother, but the Vicomte de Valmont swaggers into the room like a rakish hero might and her attention cannot be elsewhere. He greets the room and Cecile thinks, _this_ is a man of society. He crosses the room and takes the marquise’s hand and kisses it. They exchange pleasantries in hushed tones, like novels say a lover might. Cecile thinks they make such an elegant picture, heads bent together just so. 

“What a pleasant surprise,” her mother says, breaking up the intimate pair.

“Madame de Volanges! How delightful to see you.”

“You remember my daughter, Cecile?”

Were that she was closer, she might’ve been able to offer her hand in a delicate gesture she practiced so much at home.

“Well indeed, but who could have foretold she would flower so gracefully.”

Cecile feels her face flush. Maman said the victome calculated what hurt he could do, but this refined man who must be well-versed in society has paid her the loveliest of compliments. What damage could such a compliment wreak? 

The marquise and the vicomte are speaking, but Cecile can pay them no mind over her racing heart. He presses by her, upsetting the careful arrangement of her skits. The victome leans rather informally and completely charmingly against the back of the settee. Cecile can feel the heat from his body, and finds that she cannot concentrate on the conversation with the victome starting at her like something entrancing; like a desirable woman. 

“Oh, Madame de Rosemond has been good enough to invite us to stay at the chateau. Won’t you please give her our warmest regards?”

“I shall make a point of it, madame,” the victome says.

“I think it’s time we took you home,” her mother says addressing Cecile and bringing her back to the present. There is something pinched in her mother’s face, which means Maman is irritated and Cecile wishes she knew why. 

She speaks before she loses the courage to. “I’m used to being in bed by nine at the convent.” As soon as the words leave her mouth, Cecile knows they will fail to convince maman to stay for a little bit longer, or impress the vicomte. 

“So I should hope,” he says, a strange quirk to his lips.

Cecile answers her mother’s summons and bids adieu to the marquise. Before she follows her mother out of the drawing room, Cecile casts a last, quietly longing glance at the picture of the vicomte and the marquise—the two of them the very essence of style and elegant society.

_:::_


End file.
